


Blog about my life - or, more likely, about us.

by eilinenaurinko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Drama & Romance, F/F, F/M, Jealous John, Jealousy, M/M, Murderers, Organized Crime, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-02 10:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10216373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilinenaurinko/pseuds/eilinenaurinko
Summary: This is the original blog of Dr. John H. Watson. As some of you may know, my therapist has been telling me to write a blog about my life. She claims it would help the mental side of me - and I agree with her now. Since I have been with Sherlock and written about it, things have gone for the better and I can thank no one else but her and this blog - and maybe Sherlock too, just maybe a little.JW*A story where two men notice they feel to feel something strange, something so different as they are together but either one wants to admit it. Let's add some criminality, jealousy, and Moriarty to the picture and we are ready to go!





	1. The Mad Man at the Market

**Author's Note:**

> So, basically, this is a book where almost every chapter contains one "blog post" but there will be normal text too; sometimes a little, sometimes a little more and sometimes not at all.  
> The main reason I even started to write this fic was to learn to write in English - and to fangirl over Johnlock of course. So, as we can deduce, I am NOT professional at this, especially in English grammar.  
> You can also find this fanfiction in Wattpad: Blog about us by weirdodarkness.

Those tiny little glances over your shoulder and the never-ending panic when they're not next to you like you thought they would. When you feel so happy but at the same time profoundly sad. Like a rose in the desert; It grows so beautifully, touches the blue sky, shines and shares the beauty to the whole world. But at the same time, you see the desert ringing the beauty. It drains the rose, kills every single bit of it. Second by second, day by day, it drains and dries some more. You can do nothing, you cannot save the rose, protect its beauty and pure innocence. It will die, no matter what you will do.

Sorry, where was I? Ah, that's right. I am so sorry, sometimes I have these tiny digressions and odd thoughts and I just must get them out of my mind. But let's start, shall we?

It was just a normal Monday morning and I was heading for the local market to get some food because our fridge back home was empty - again. You know Sherlock, he never does things like grocery shopping, laundry, he never even makes his bed! All I can do is literally walk after him and do "the necessary stuff" he refuses to do himself because it is "boring". But it is okay, I am fine with it. I also have Mrs. Hudson who helps me with the flat - even though she is not our housekeeper. What a lovely woman.

As I reached my destination and walked through the market's big glass doors, I saw something absolutely odd. There was a man, just a normal British man, walking around the market's halls. That would not have been so strange if he had not has a gun in his - surprisingly small - hand. I froze then and there and just looked at the man. He had that scary, confident smile on his thin, dry lips. His grayish brown hair was resting flat on his head, shining a bit when it hit the bright light. No one else seemed to notice the odd detail about this man but me. After a quick thinking session with myself, I decided to text Sherlock if he knew something about this thing or if there was some case going on and everyone had forgotten to tell me. Yes, that happens sometimes. One time it happened and I almost got killed by some dangerous drug dealer. Luckily Sherlock was just around the corner and saved my life once again.

I put my right hand in my coat's pocket, pulled out my phone and unlocked it. While I was looking down at the phone's screen and writing the text, I did not notice that the odd, scary man came closer. I raised my gaze from the bright screen when I was having the feeling you get when someone is staring at you and saw the evil, almost black eyes staring straight into mine. He stood only a few meters away, smiling like someone who had just escaped from the mental hospital. The man's teeth were disgustingly yellow and I could smell his bad breath all the way from where I was standing. I will not admit it, but my pulse may have sped up a little.  
Suddenly the man started talking. His voice was very raspy and sounded much older than he looked like. He looked young actually, maybe 20 years old, but sounded like 50-year-old. It did not help the situation at all when he started walking again. Slowly, step by step he came closer to me. By every second I saw more details about his face and looks. "You are the friend of his", he said quietly, smiling pleased. The smile did not, however, reach his eyes. I might have guessed who he had meant with "his" but still asked some extra questions. I played time so Sherlock would answer. I did not have my gun with me so I barely had any protection over myself.

"What do you mean, whose friend am I?" I asked keeping my voice calm like ice and succeeded well in it, at least in my opinion, but he seemed to see right through me and knew I knew whom he was talking about. I could tell it by his face. "You know exactly of whom I am talking about, a friend of both of us, Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective who lives at Baker Street with his companion, doctor John Watson, which is you." I had no idea how he knew about Sherlock and me so much. He or we were not that popular - at least not yet. But there was this one thing I have been told more than twice and I said it out loud:

"It's a colleague, not a companion, and he has no friends."

The man started to laugh evilly. He made so much noise that people around us turned to look at what was happening. Some people even stopped and chatted about the scene. Apparently, the man did not like the audience. He raised the hand in which he was holding his gun and shot two times. There were screams and an alarm noise started to ring. Few security men ran to us but before I could react, the man had slipped his arm around my neck. I felt the gun pressed against my temple and smelled the man's very bad odor. I tried to free myself but he was too strong and tightened his grip to the point I could not breathe properly anymore. "Don't come any closer or I'll shoot this man's brains out of his bloody head!" The security men stopped running, glanced at each other and took their guns to sight. One of them called to someone, probably the police, speaking so far away we could not hear his words. Then the next thing happened was that my phone beeped in my hand, telling I had had a message. It obviously worried the man whose hand was tightly around my neck. He hissed in my ear with his rough voice: "Who the fuck are you texting with? Who did you call?" I could feel his spit on my cheek as he spoke angrily to my ear. Without thinking I raised my hand a bit so I could see who had sent the text. I had a guess and it was right.

2:24 PM. From: Sherlock  
No, I have not. Is everything alright there, John?  
SH

Suddenly a new message came into view:

2:26 PM. From: Sherlock  
Lestrade called me. I am on my way. Be safe.  
SH

I heard some angry growling from behind me. The man had read my texts too and was now aware that Sherlock was coming which automatically meant he would be in trouble. He knew how the detective was like, he had to. He knew Sherlock somehow and I absolutely did not like it. I should have warned Sherlock about this man but did not have the chance to.

"Always... freaking always! Someone comes and saves the bloody day!" the man shouted while jerking my body back. He was taking me somewhere and I could not do anything to stop him. The man continued talking - or shouting if you asked me: "But not this time. Today I am the winner of this game." He started laughing again but this time it was only evil chuckling.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

John stretched his fingers and leaned back, resting his eyes from the computer's bright screen. It was two in the morning already and he was still up, writing his blog. The case he was telling was from yesterday and just the thinking of it made his stomach turn. But he was alright with it, he, in fact, enjoyed writing about the stuff that happened to him and Sherlock. My Life was the blog's name. John's therapist had told him to write a blog about something, she had said it would help. And she had been right, of course.

"Still up", a low voice spoke behind John making him jump a little. Sherlock appeared next to him, leaning forward to the computer with a cup of tea on his right hand. "What are you writing. The stupid blog of yours?" He had his usual, shiny blue velvet robe on him and his hair was a bit messy. The curls pointed to every direction possible.

"Oh, come on!" John knew he was just joking and pissing him off by purpose. He still threw his head back, whining. "It is not stupid, I have readers you know. People are actually quite interested in your life", the shorter man told to the taller with a hint of pride behind it. Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit and he straightened his position. "In my life? I thought it told about your life, not mine", the curly haired man said, sipping his tea while watching John's face become red.

"I didn't mean it like that! I'm just telling about the cases which are solved by you, in case you haven't noticed", John tried to explain with a frustrated tone. Sherlock just hummed and sipped his tea before moving to the sofa. He muttered something John could not quite catch but the doctor did not care at the moment. He continued his blog post, trying to get his concentration back.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

The man dragged me to the underground parking lot. Once we were there he searched for something to tie my hands and mouth and found some rope from a warehouse. There were just three cars in the parking lot so it was easy to see if someone got there. I was forced to my knees in the middle of the lot while the man himself went somewhere I could not see. He had taken my phone so I had no idea if Sherlock knew where I was. I hoped he would find it out.  
My knees started to hurt by time and I wanted nothing more than stand up. However, I knew that if I had done that, I would have been killed. Suddenly I heard faint footsteps from a distance. The person was obviously running. "Please be Sherlock", I hoped in my mind.  
Then I saw him: the curly-haired man with his black trench coat and a blue scarf which swung from a side to another. His focused eyes landed immediately on me. He was going to come and get me but he was interrupted by a shot. Sherlock stopped and looked into the direction where the shot had come.  
"Well well, look at who we have here!" the odd man shouted from his hiding place. His voice was disgustingly glad. "The prince came to rescue his princess, how lovely."

I could not speak but instead looked into Sherlock's eyes to apologize. I felt like it was my fault he was constantly being spoken like that even though all knew we were not together. But to my surprise, he mouthed me that 'it's okay' and took a gun out of his inside pocket.  
"Who are you and what exactly are you doing?" Sherlock asked with his low voice sending goosebumps to my skin. The man just chuckled and walked closer to Sherlock. He was smiling and twiddled the gun of his in his hands. "Why would I tell you?" He glanced at me over his shoulder before looking at Sherlock again. "Because I have a gun and the police's right behind my back." The detective's tone of voice did not change a bit. "Even though I won't be needing them", he continued muttering. He remained calm all time he was speaking to the man. Admirable mind control as always. Quite flattering if I would say. "But I have a gun too and I'm not afraid to use it." And without a word, the man shot right next to my left leg. I jumped a little because I was not prepared for it. Sherlock's eyes stoned, staring at the leg of mine for a fleeting moment before coming back to normal. If a look could kill, the odd man would have been dead already. "Don't you dare..." Sherlock trailed off, raising his gun to the level of his eyes and pointing the man. "Why are you doing this? You have to have a motive, every murderer, kidnapper, whatever, has a motive!" His footsteps echoed through the cold lot making goosebumps run over my body. Sherlock walked straight to the man with a serious look on his face.

The man started laughing once again and showed his yellow teeth. "Oh, my dear Sherlock. I have come to have my revenge." I and Sherlock were both confused. He glanced at me, asking if I knew this man, and I answered him 'no'. I had never seen him before so what was he talking about? "Don't play innocent! I know you did it! You killed my wife!" the man shouted ignoring the impending danger called Sherlock and marched to me. I stared into his dark eyes and saw the glimmer of madness in them. "It was you who stabbed her to death, ripped her heart out of her lifeless, bloody body! He told me it was you!" the man kept on shouting. I was slightly shocked. "No, I didn't! I have never seen your wife! I don't know who she was or who even you are!" I tried to shout back but because of the rope, all that came out of my mouth was mumbling. However, I received a punch on my face and I collapsed on the floor with a hurting and bleeding nose. Meanwhile Sherlock kept asking him questions. He had come to me right after the man and shoot only a step away from his smelly figure.

"Who? Who told you it was John?" Sherlock shouted making the man turn to face him. "Who?" he continued quieter this time.  
The man giggled and begun: "His name was Moriar--" However he was stopped by a shot that came out of nowhere and took a place on his temple. He hit the floor with a loud thump and remained silent.

Sherlock started running to the direction where the shot had come but had no luck. Whoever the shooter had been, had already gotten away.  
I panted on the floor and let out all the nerves I had gathered during the past forty minutes. Sherlock hurried to me once he had given up with the shooter, untied the ropes and asked if I was fine. After that, he started scanning over the man’s body and did his deduction. "By judging his clothes and behaviour, he's from some mental hospital and he has escaped - see these marks on his wrists, he had been tied up, probably because he was dangerous to others and himself. He mentioned Moriarty, which is the same name the cabbie mentioned before --" he stopped for a moment " -- dying. So, there's just one possibility in this case: Moriarty did help this man to escape and lied to him about us. And why he did that? I don't know and I don't like not knowing."

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

John wrote the post to the end and published it. It was nearly three in the morning but the doctor was not tired at all. He glanced out of the flat's window, staring at the dark outside world. The streets were never quiet, the night of London was always filled with noises. Some people still walked on the streets even though it was very late. There were stars in the sky, sparkling beautifully somewhere in the space. John hummed. He wished Sherlock would have been playing his violin at the moment. It would have made the moment even more beautiful.

Lestrade did explain them after the case that the man, Sebastian Griffin was his name, had, in fact, escaped the greatest mental hospital of England. He had gone mad a few years ago and killed his wife and three children. There wasn't any sign of Moriarty in the man's history but it was just clear that he, whoever he was, was part of the escape. The man bothered his mind. He really did scare him, Moriarty scared him. Suddenly he heard a voice from the sofa where Sherlock was lying on.

"Hungry? You haven't eaten after the case", Sherlock asked from his typical mind palace position in where he was laying on the sofa his hands raised to his lips like he was praying. John shut his laptop, checked the time and thought. "Starving", he admitted, looking at the detective. And that was all it was needed to make Sherlock jump up and go get his black coat. "But it's almost three, no place is open at this hour", John tried arguing but he was shushed by the curly one. "I know a good Chinese which is always open. Come on." And, after a long-feeling pause, the doctor did.


	2. The Mouldy Dinner

Hello everyone. So, it has only been a day after the last post, but here I am again! This case happened right after I had published The odd man at the market when I was at a dinner with Sherlock. Well, at least we do not have time to get bored. ...

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

Right after when John and Sherlock had arrived at the restaurant and John had paid to the cabbie, Sherlock had asked what was wrong with the doctor. And John was surprised. Very surprised. Not because Sherlock had deduced it but because he, in fact, asked it out loud too. It made John's heart beat oddly and John had no idea why. It has to be because of my lack of eating, yeah, that is it, he thought in his tiny little head.

"Nothing serious", the smaller one answered while looking away from the detective. Sherlock, however, didn't buy the answer. He huffed. "I don't ask unnecessary questions." The detective looked at John's eyes and made it clear he wouldn't shut up before the man answered with honest. John sighed and prepared himself a little before letting the words come out of his mouth. He cleared his voice and looked forward, concentrated. Sherlock in the other hand didn't take his eyes off him. He kept on looking his friend with curiousness in his multi-coloured eyes.

"It's about yesterday. About Moriarty", John admitted glancing his feet for a moment. Then he looked back at the detective. "What is he up to? What do you think?" John frowned, thinking himself too. Sherlock thought for a moment before moving his gaze to the door handle of the restaurant. "Be more specific", was all Sherlock replied before opening the wooden door for John. The doctor entered the tiny restaurant soon followed by the curly one. John was sure he had understood his question and had a proper answer but demanded a more accurate question anyway - he always did.

"Well, like, why is he doing all this and putting so much effort into this, to keep us busy or something?", John tried to be more specific. Apparently, it was enough for him because after they had settled down to the table and taken off their coats, Sherlock started to speak: "I have few theories." But before he could start to explain the theories, a waitress came to their table. "Hello Mr. Holmes and his.." she looked from Sherlock to John waiting for him to tell if he was Sherlock's friend or something ... more. "Friend", John said and smiled a little. She let out a surprised 'oh', shook her head and gave the men two menus. "Thank you, Min", Sherlock thanked the girl before she bowed down and left. Min was a small girl, obviously had Chinese roots, and had pure black hair with bangs and dark eyes which sparkled as she smiled. She was petite.

"He could be just a bored human being with some intelligence to make such plans. Or then he's some criminal mastermind who I have insulted - in his opinion, of course, people do offense too easily - and he wants his revenge", Sherlock talked fast with his low voice while riffling through the menu. He was wearing a purple dress shirt and John could do nothing but love it on him. It was one of his favourites. Sometimes he even stole the shirt and wore it himself and he had no idea if Sherlock had noticed - and trust me, he for sure had. Sherlock then put the menu down and pushed it further away from himself. Apparently, he wasn't eating - yet again. "Sherlock, you must eat", John insisted, making a scolding gaze towards his friend. "You never eat, now's the time." He spoke rather quickly, leaning a bit forward too. The doctor thought his words would cause more effect that way. And he was right. After a quiet snort, the curly man picked up the menu and opened it. He was quick, decided his meal under five seconds, and put the menu away once again. John, in turn, had hard times figuring out which meat should he have: chicken or pork. "Chicken", Sherlock suddenly said glancing down the doctor. John raised his eyes and looked into the bright blue-green ones. "Sorry?" he asked a bit confused. His mind was still wondering somewhere in the menu. "Have chicken, John. Does much better for your internals than red meat", Sherlock explained, making John let out an 'oh' and then 'yes, of course'. He was a doctor after all, he should have been able to observe it too.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

... Soon enough we had our meals – Sherlock had decided to take some light vegetable thing – and the waitress once again stood next to us. She looked a bit odd as if something was bothering her. A lot. Sherlock eyed her with his shining eyes, obviously deducing. The girl was just about to start talking with her kind voice before someone shouted from the kitchen. It was clearly a male's voice causing Sherlock to narrow his eyes. "Something's wrong", he said half muttering after the waitress had gone. "Stay here." He then stood from his seat and started walking towards the kitchen doors. I followed the detective's orders and remained still, glancing at the other customers in the restaurant. There was an old lady sitting alone in the corner. Far from her, on the other side of the room, sat two men, eating in silence. And then there was these little kids, a girl and a boy. Usually, when you see children, they are full of life, they run with joy glowing through their laughter, through their skin and hair. But these two little kids stayed utterly still. They were on a booth, leaning one another.

I started eating my food and god it was just awful! It tasted at least weeks old and I could almost swear I saw some mould in the corner of the white square plate. I spat the food into the napkin I had been given with the food. I drank the whole glass of water at once and settled the now empty glass on the table with a little thud noise. Something was certainly wrong, I could swear. I stood up too, even though Sherlock had told me not to, and looked at the restaurant for the second time. The old lady was not moved a bit since the I last time looked at her. Same thing with the men and the children. Without thinking further, I started walking towards the people. I walked slowly and prepared for the worst.

"Hello there", I tried greeting but got nothing back. "Are you alright?" The closer I got the stronger came the pungent smell I had noticed a few steps ago. For that reason, I covered my face a little with my hand and continued walking. I was just a few steps away from the kids as I saw it: the mould in their faces. My eyes widened and I just stood there in shock. How could there be mould in their faces? Their noses, cheeks, even mouths were covered with the grayish-green thing. I walked hurriedly to the lady and saw there was mould in her face and arms too. I did not have my gloves with me so I could not check their time of death or anything like that. I did not want to touch the people without protection, that I was sure about. Before I could even glance over the men, I heard scolding from behind me.

"I told you to stay where you were," Sherlock upbraid with a pan in his right hand. The waitress was right behind him with a horrified look on her face. "Whatever, at least I don't have to be the one who gets you shocked", he muttered before starting to scope his surroundings for more. "They've been here for a couple of months, already dead when brought here", Sherlock answered my non-asked questions about the bodies. "This was just a setup thing for covering the gun-selling business that was controlled here." After saying all this, Sherlock gave a look to the waitress and got back to the kitchen.

I let all the information sink in for a moment before coming back to the present. I let Lestrade know the case and texted him quickly. At the time I was writing, the waitress glanced at me. She had a black dress and white apron on top of it. I made the last look towards the bodies, especially the kids, and started moving to the girl. I felt so sorry for all the people even though I had no idea who they were.

"I guess we should introduce ourselves better", I smiled at the waitress, stretching my hand out for a shake. She smiled back, grabbing my hand with both of her hands and shook them a little. It looked like she was waiting for me to speak first so I did: "So, I'm Doctor Watson but call me just John. I'm Sherlock's friend and we live together. "I might have said too much judging from her face. She frowned and her mouth opened a little. However, she shook it away and brought the smile back. "My name Min. Sherlock saved me once when I was being blamed for something I hadn't had done. I owe him my life, honestly", she laughed shyly. I had thought something like this when I first noticed the two of them knew each other.

Min fiddled with her fingers and looked at me, biting her lip nervously. "Can I ask you something?" I looked in her unsure eyes and gave her a warm smile. "'Course, what is it?" "Are you really saying that Sherlock is just your friend?" I laughed. "Yes, yes I am sure." Why on earth did she think otherwise? We did not ...

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

John stopped writing. He was going to write: "We did not have feelings like that for each other" but, for some odd reason, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Why? Why all the sudden writing about Sherlock's and his relationship felt so hard? John shut his eyes, tried to clear his mind. He didn't like Sherlock like that, did he? They were just friends. And besides Sherlock told John that "he was married to his work" at their first dinner together. He didn't have time to the romantic stuff. And why on earth would he like someone like John?

The doctor frowned crossing his arms into his lap. He glanced at the detective sitting in front of him in his chair. He had the day's newspaper in his hands. There was an article about some interesting science thing John didn't bother to remember. He looked at the features of Sherlock, his sharp cheekbones, brown curls and, god, so beautiful eyes. He could name every detail of his face if someone asked him. Before John could move his eyes back to the laptop's screen Sherlock raised his gaze and locked their eyes together. John felt a lump forming in his throat as he tried to swallow. He didn't take his eyes off his and neither did Sherlock. The two men sat in silence and let the time pass. John wanted the moment never to end. He enjoyed the warm feeling he could get used to. Every time he looked at him he gets the same, warm and safe feeling. But this time there was more. John felt an urge to get closer to Sherlock, to wrap his arms around him and just melt into him. He felt the blood rush in his veins, he could feel his heart rate rising.

"How are you boys?" they heard a familiar voice from the door. Mrs. Hudson came to the view and John finally remembered what was the thing called breathing. He took a deep breath, took his eyes off Sherlock and coughed into his hand. "Fine, just fine, how about you?" John smiled at the woman and got up. He placed the laptop of his onto the chair before going to the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson had just gone. He could see the curious look that Sherlock was giving him until continuing reading the news. John was a bit scared of his own thoughts he had just had. He had to get rid of them.

Mrs. Hudson opened their fridge, did a little check if there was anything inappropriate or something that did really not belong there. She found a vague piece of meat, stabbed it lightly with her index finger and cringed. "Why on earth do you keep things like this in your fridge?" she muttered disgusted and wiped her finger on her flower-pattern dress. John had arrived into the kitchen and was now keeping his hands on the back of the chair. He didn't answer the question. "Any new cases?" Mrs. Hudson asked John as she was putting things into the fridge. They had really not had time to go shopping lately - or John hadn't had. Sherlock never did do those things. Do not think about him! John tried to tell himself. He had to forget him for even a few minutes.

"No, not right now. I just hope he won't get bored anytime soon", the doctor shared a knowing look with Mrs. Hudson. She knew exactly what he was talking about. After finishing the filling up process, Mrs. Hudson said her goodbyes and left with the "I'm not your housekeeper" reminding. John just smirked and wished her a nice day and after that he decided to finish his blog post.

Immediately when John came back to his chair he noticed a major thing: his laptop had moved from its original seat. Also, Sherlock had moved from his seat to the couch where he was lying at the moment, traveling somewhere in his mind palace. John took the laptop in his hands and read the last sentences he had written:

"Can I ask you something?" I looked in her unsure eyes and gave her a warm smile. "'Course, what is it?" "Are you really saying that Sherlock is just your friend?" I laughed. "Yes, yes I am sure." Why on earth did she think otherwise? We did not --"

John dropped himself to the red armchair of his. Maybe he just remembered wrong where he had left his laptop. Yeah, it had to be like that, hadn't it?


End file.
